The Fog - James Herbert [30]
‘All right, all right, you’ve had your little prank, but I’m going to give you five seconds to get weaving again!’ He strode into the middle of them. ‘One . . .’
He failed to notice Clark, now behind him, walk towards a cricket bat lying on one of the benches at the side of the gym.
‘. . . two . . . I’m warning you boys, you’re all going to be punished for this! Three . . .’
Clark picked up the bat and walked back with it towards the angry teacher.
‘Four. This is your last chance . . .’
As his lips formed the word ‘five’, Clark raised the bat high and brought it crashing down on the back of Osborne’s head. The teacher staggered forward as the hall filled with the crack of the impact between wood and skull. Clutching the back of his head, bent double, almost blind with pain, he turned in time to see the heavy bat swinging down towards him again. He cried out in horror, the look of questioning on his face barely registering before it was erased under the impact of the second blow.
He sank to the ground, still conscious but painfully stunned. He sprawled forward as the bat landed again, blood now running down his neck, staining his blue tracksuit. The boys surged forward as one, shouting in a wild fury, stamping on the limp man with plimsoled feet. They tore the trousers of his track suit from his body and turned him over on to his back, grabbing and kicking at his exposed testicles. Several tore off their own shorts and vests and began rubbing at their own already enlarged penises. One of the smaller boys jumped on the teacher and tried to enter him as though he were a woman, but was dragged off and beaten to the ground by the others. They pulled the top half of the tracksuit off so Osborne was completely naked, then dragged him towards the wall bars. The bars were of the type that swung away from the wall when in use, so that climbing ropes hung from the tops of their frames.
The boys lifted Osborne and viciously pushed him back against the bars, two climbing either side of him to loop the hanging ropes through the wooden bars and lashing his wrists to them high above his head. Then his feet were pushed through the lower rungs so that they were trapped by the ankles.
While some spat, kicked, punched or just jeered at the hanging man, others ran towards the huge sports chest and brought out wicket stumps, skipping ropes, more bats. One boy struggled with a heavy medicine ball. Their laughter and shouting stopped as they formed a semi-circle around the moaning figure. Blood from Osborne’s head wounds spread down his body as he writhed feebly in his agonizing position. Then, in turn they began to beat him with the wicket stumps, lashing him with the wooden ends of the skipping ropes, striking him with the bats. His genitals were crushed by one of the stronger boys who systematically hit at Osborne’s kneecaps and private parts. Clark took the medicine ball and aimed it at Osborne’s head, making it crack back against the wall bars under the impact of the throw. The boys all bore the same animal look of madness on their faces, their eyes wide, their mouths slack and drooling, the insane excitement of their actions making them scarcely human. All except one. One small boy crouched shivering in a far corner, too terrified to run away, too paralysed to take his eyes off the incredible scene taking place. A boy who had not been allowed to accompany the others on their coach trip the day before because he was recovering from an illness. He crouched there in a tight ball, his legs drawn up, clutching them with his arms, his nose buried into his knees – hoping, praying that the others would not notice him.
Summers reached the entrance to the gymnasium and paused; the pain in his head was becoming more severe. He dabbed a handkerchief to his forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat that had broken out. Perhaps I’m coming down with something, he thought. Perhaps the crash yesterday had more effect on me than I imagined. Oh well, it will soon be end of term and then I’ll have